


capable of doing terrible things

by Buttercup_ghost



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, Dangan Ronpa: Trigger Happy Havoc, Super Dangan Ronpa 2
Genre: Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Introspection, Nonbinary Character, Nonbinary Junko, Not rlly mentioned much but, Other, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, i couldn't sleep so I over thought everything and this was born, its 6 am and I'm feeling that good old Depression, probably delete later, vent - Freeform, vent fic, well see when I'm fully awake and in a better state of mind
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-31
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2019-01-27 06:00:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12575236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Buttercup_ghost/pseuds/Buttercup_ghost
Summary: you people are mistaken;if you think that i'm awake and celebrating anything that i've become(Run.)





	capable of doing terrible things

"The greatest thing about being alive," they say, pink hair swishing, "is you can do whatever you want."

They pauses at her gaze, titling themselves up, and air of confidence, glasses finding their way to their face. "The universe doesn't care," they state, bluntly, "it does not give a shit about what you do." A smile. A pause. "There is no grand master plan for you. No force is going to come to smite you from the heavens. The universe. Doesn't. Care."

"Isn't that liberating?"

"You could do anything," they smile. It looks more like a pleased sneer, the kind that you could sink into its edges and cracks, a knife. "If you wanted too, you could even stop people from hurting you," they don't say _you could kill them, make them pay,_ but that doesn't mean they don't think it. The unspoken lingers in the air.

"The only people stopping people from doing things," their face turns blank now, distant, "are people."

"It's cowardly. They make rules and systems and act as if it's how things have to be, should be," their eyes are swirling, a laugh in the air without being spoken, "when it's not. Rules screw people over everyday. Systems screw people over everyday." the words are right, but they are wrong.

They continue to speak.

"People condemn people because of rules. They comfort themselves with them," their piercing blue eyes fix her purple gaze, "They think, 'even if they had a good motivation, it's illegal, so it's ok that they are now rotting in a prison somewhere.' Even though those rules are self imposed. The very system is self imposed."

She feels like their eyes are staring into her soul. Judging. Judging. Finding.

She leans back, perhaps finding her worthy, or maybe finding her pitiful, "Humans have binded themselves in a farce called _justice_."

"They sell pretty words that mean nothing and locking away people without bias," a pause, their gaze shifts to her bandaged arm, "and yet they never really catch the people who need to be stopped."

They remember a girl with a knife in her hands and desperation on the wind. They remember a man with hands like a painter and a mouth like a cave dead on the ground. He painted them a picture of themselves in tears, before the one they called sister ripped through his throat as if stealing his voice could erase the finch they suppress every time a man speaks, just a bit to loud, just a bit to commanding, just a bit to much like him, until they're suddenly there.

Their eyes drift far away, "In the eyes of the law, you're right or wrong. It's black or white. Guilty or innocent."

"You're hope," they continue, before a smile rejoins their face, "or you're _despair_." 

"In reality, no one is innocent." The child they use to be under the man with a mouth full of blood crushes bugs beneath their foot, "And yet we dilute ourselves. Think that we're decent. When the very foundation of humanity is rotten."

"There is no such thing as justice," they know, they know, "only judgement."

"Isn't it bland? Isn't it boring?" Their smile is uncanny. She wonders if they're really there, as she takes an involuntary step back, years of fears programmed into her mind, like circuitry.

If they notice, if they know what that flinch means, they don't say it. Their smile is unchanging. Unnerving. Inviting.

A breath, "I hate humans. They're predictable."

She finds her voice, a stammer of a thing, lost to the winds, "aren't you a human?"

They hear this despite the faded out existence of her, the frayed edges, a ghost of a voice.

"No," they reply, wistful, "no."

A pause, "I'm less than human."

She speaks again, stronger this time, as if being tethered down to the physical plane, "No. You're more than human."

She looks into their eyes, "you're _Inhuman_. You're a goddess."

She pauses, rethinking her words, before tacking on a, "O-Or a god, if you prefer."

In that moment, Junko finds they believes her, and in that moment Mikan finds herself drawn into them.

The both found themselves wondering if junko offered liberation or corruption.

They both found themselves wondering if it mattered.

 


End file.
